At the geographical north pole, Arctic winds batter 85-year-old David Attenborough as he delivers his opening monologue. "I'm standing at the very top of the Earth," he says, horizontal icy blasts freezing his jowls. "Here, the sun never rises high enough in the sky to warm my back." Every element of BBC1's Frozen Planet (Wed, 9pm, BBC1) is crafted to make one's heart soar. Here is Attenborough in HD, ancient, omniscient, flanked by orchestral parpings and majestic shots of frozen forests, Antarctic icecaps and the crystal caverns of Mount Erebus.

Frozen Planet floods me with both hollow feelings of media-related jingoism ("Pah! No one takes pride in classy nature TV like we do in Blighty! These shots of humping polar bears and orcas feasting on unfortunate seal cubs are on primetime 9pm telly! God bless the Queen! In your face, Kardashian wedding!"), and powerful waves of existential perspective not experienced since Renaissance peasant folk set eyes on Saint Peter's Basilica ("Wow man, the world is, like, so totally enormous and mighty and I am so teeny and inconsequential. This is the most humble night I've ever spent staring at a TV, eating butterscotch Angel Delight, wearing trackpants, ever").

Obviously, to jangle my nerves further, a dark sense of foreboding is ever-present. "And we'll be seeing many of these animals for the LAST TIME," Attenborough warns, cut with shots of a great grey owl in flight and humpback whales demolishing krill. And I believe him. I'll believe anything Attenborough tells me about the planet more than I believe the fey whinings of charity chuggers with head-nits and an armful of festival wristbands making faux-shag eyes at me outside The Body Shop in return for my Visa details.

The upside to Frozen Planet's nature lecture, however, is it makes "not caring" about some breeds becoming extinct a lot easier, as it underlines that animals are heinous, self-centred, double-crossing, morality-free bastards. Behold the intoxicating footage of a Timber Wolf pack, 25 of them, strong, noble, united, sharp-eared and slobbery tongued – and then behold the plump bison pack in their midst: nature's version of Gourmet Burger Kitchen. Why did I expect the bison to care as one of their young is dragged away, flapping, mooing and eventually dissolving into entrails and bloody pulp? I've seen The Lion King, I know what goes on: I expect at least one meaningful shot of grown-up bison warring doggedly before waving junior off to bison heaven with their little frozen hooves. But no. Nothing. "Screw him, it's not me" is the mantra of the furry-faced from pole to pole.

A polar bear could watch Attenborough climb out of a helicopter with his walking stick to film a monologue intended to save the polar bear's arse and still have no qualms about killing him. Cold paws, cold heart. But Frozen Planet's footage of polar bears mating is wonderful. The pair eye each other sheepishly then move somewhere vaguely private to rut. When he's finished, the male pads off, with a bloody nose from breaking off mid-shag to beat up his rivals, leaving her pregnant and never to see him again. It's beautiful. A lot like when I used to go out down Newcastle's Bigg Market.